


It's beginning to look nothing like Christmas

by Lysistrata



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysistrata/pseuds/Lysistrata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origins of drinking in the holiday season to survive time spent with unwelcome relatives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's beginning to look nothing like Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Fill number one for the advent challenge at LJ.

“Didn’t time that very well, really,” said one of the shepherds. You could tell he was a shepherd, because he had a wary looking sheep tethered by a length of string that he was nominally in charge of. Most people would assume that shepherds would have rather more than one sheep to guard over; but then most people wouldn’t argue with this particular shepherd, either.

Something about his eyes, maybe.

“I mean, September? It’s a bit of a nothing month, isn’t it. No great festivals. Not cold enough to cram inside and glory at the ineffable bloody marvel...OW!”

The shepherd’s tirade was interrupted when his foot was clumsily stamped upon by one of the numerous, and suspiciously clean flock that apparently belonged to the shepherd standing beside him. This shepherd had significantly more than one sheep, and hair suspiciously well groomed for someone who lived halfway up a mountain with people who considered a dip in the river once a year as good hygiene.

“You could look more cheerful, you know,” he said to the well groomed man, giving the surrounding flock a look that suggested mutton stew was on the horizon. For all his fair appearance, his companion currently had a face like a slapped haddock. He lifted a noticeably manicured hand and gestured over at the throng of people surrounding a figure, faintly glowing in the dusk, hovering over them and singing of the great joy they were to behold.

“Look at him over there, all bare feet and sunbeams. Typical. These upstart angels are all flash and no substance, not like the old days,” he was interrupted by a snort of derision and something that sounded like _says mr flaming sword here_ , but ignored it in favour of further glowering.

“I don’t think I can take much more of this – this...”

“Self congratulatory wank fest?”

“Crowley! Couldn’t you take one day off being thoroughly uncouth for the birth of our Lord!”

“Shhh, angel, we’re incognito! Or do you want to be dragged into the chorus and sing adulations from now until doomsday? He’s not my Lord, you know. I can leave any time and see what passes for a hard drink in this place.”

It would be hard to say who was more surprised by the sudden disappearance of the flock, though a betting man would probably lay it down at evens on the sheep themselves. I’m certain that they have a nice new home in grassy meadows in a lamb sanctuary with eternal springtime. Crowley took one disgusted look at the now empty rope and regarded his companion with a fixed stare.

“You, angel, are more ruthless by half than your lot are supposed to be. Care to be corrupted further? I foresee a pitcher of moonshine with our name on it in the near future.”

Aziraphale linked arms with the man beside him, and gave his most beatific smile.

“My dear, I thought you would never ask.”


End file.
